


Burn

by Robespierre



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Angry Sex, Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robespierre/pseuds/Robespierre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kink meme prompt <i>Phelps/Leary - Angry sex.  Leary gets jealous of how close Cole is with Stefan.  Cole and Stefan aren't interested in each other like that,  but Leary doesn't know that.  Cole and Leary argue leading to angry sex.  Bonus if Stefan is listening and getting slightly turned on</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> DUBIOUS CONSENT.  
> This story features a character who is blackmailed into having sex with a coworker, but he does consent to the sex.

Gordon Leary sighed and stretched, his spine popping.  After a long couple of hours of paperwork, he was more than ready to head home.   He walked toward the door of his office, ready to grab his hat and suit jacket from the coatrack, and was surprised to hear a voice coming from the squad room a few doors down. 

Listening closely, Leary couldn’t make out the individual words but recognized the voice.  It was brisk and efficient, soft and calm: Cole Phelps.

Phelps.  Fucking Phelps.

For the last few weeks, Phelps had been driving Leary crazy.  The man had all the makings of a good (no, damn it, a _great_ ) detective, but lately Leary couldn’t stand the sight of him.  And he wasn’t sure why.  Phelps was racking up arrests and impressing the hell out of the brass.  In fact, Phelps and Bekowsky-

Bekowsky. 

Bekowsky who had been Leary’s friend for years, who he joked around with, who he used to spend nights in bars with, who he loved spending time with…all right, time to stop kidding himself.  He was ready to murder Phelps because he was taking Bekowsky away from him. 

“Evening, Chief.” 

“Phelps.  What can I do for you?”

Phelps stood in the doorway, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie draped loosely around his neck.

“We just finished the paperwork for those arrests this afternoon.  I thought I’d drop them off before we headed to the bar.”

“Oh, you two are going out?”  Now they were going to the bar together?  _Fuck you, Phelps_.  Hoping not to sound too eager, he asked, “Mind if I join you?”

A strange look crossed Phelps face.  He stared at his boss for a moment, then smirked and said, “No, I don’t think so.”

Leary’s jaw dropped.  “What?”

Phelps took a step into the office and closed the door behind him.  In the dim light from the desk lamp that provided the room’s only illumination, Leary saw that damn smirk again.

“No, I don’t think so,” he repeated.  “Bekowsky and I haven’t been partners for very long and there’s still so much we don’t know about each other.  We really need to spend some time _alone_.”

Leary was frozen in place, rage building in him as he tried desperately to think of something to do other than smash Phelps’ face into a thousand pieces.

“I mean, Bekowsky is such a great guy.  I can’t wait to find out everything there is to know abouthim.”

Phelps stalked toward him.

“ _Stefan_ seems like he’s everything a man could want, doesn’t he?”

Leary realized that he had misjudged Phelps.  Friendly, intuitive, driven – yes.  But he had never known until this moment that Phelps was _dangerous_.

“You want him, don’t you?”

Leary couldn’t even force a reply from his suddenly dry throat. 

“And he doesn’t know.  Should I tell him?”

Phelps hands were moving toward Leary’s chest, suddenly reaching out to grab his tie and pulling Leary toward him until their faces were only inches apart. 

“Well, should I?  Don’t you think he would like to know just what his boss thinks of him?”

Suddenly, Phelps smashed his lips into Leary’s.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Leary hissed, pulling back.

Phelps yanked roughly on his tie again, forcing Leary to take a step forward.  Phelps was there in an instant, pressing their lower bodies together.

“Shh,” he whispered.  “There are still people downstairs and I don’t think you want anybody to hear this.”

As he spoke, Phelps dropped the tie and worked his hand between their bodies, dragging down Leary’s stomach toward his belt buckle.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Leary tried to pull away but Phelps wrapped his other arm around his back, holding him in place. 

“What you wish you could do with Bekowsky.  C’mon, just pretend that I’m him.”

Leary’s mind was reeling.  Phelps was in his office, threatening to expose his feelings for Bekowsky, trying to kiss him – and though he wanted nothing more than to punch Phelps until he was choking on his own blood, Leary was undeniably suddenly harder than he’d been in years. 

There was only one possible response.  Using every bit of his strength, Leary swept a leg behind Phelps’, knocking him to the floor.  Unsure of what to do next (was getting in a fight with a subordinate really the best thing for his career?), he paused. 

It was a mistake.  Phelps was back on his feet in a flash, closing the distance between them in a matter of seconds and launching himself at his boss.  They force of the impact drove Leary back against the wall.  Phelps was all over him, one hand reaching up to cover his mouth and the other ripping his shirt from the waistband of his pants. 

Reacting instinctively, Leary sank his teeth into the meat of Phelps’ palm.  Phelps yanked his hand away, hissing in pain and taking a step back. 

Finally feeling like he had the upper hand, Leary grabbed Phelps by the shoulders, almost as though he intended to shake some sense in the other man. 

“Phelps, what is _wrong_ with you?  I can’t believe you-”

Faster than a streak of lightning, Phelps’ right hand shot out and wrapped itself around the prominent bulge in Leary’s pants, effectively stopping Leary mid-phrase.

“Listen to me,” Phelps growled, unbuttoning and unzipping Leary’s pants with his other hand.  “It’s obvious that you’re enjoying this.  You can’t hide it.  So just listen.”

Leary’s eyes fluttered and closed and he couldn’t hold back a quiet groan as Phelps’ hand snaked its way into his shorts, fingers combing through the thick hair and stopping _just_ short of where he wanted them to be. 

“We’re going to fuck.”

Leary was losing the battle against his arousal, every muscle in his body clenched as he raised his hips slightly in an attempt to get Phelps to touch him.  He was just clearheaded enough to squeeze one question out of his tightly clamped teeth.

“Why are you doing this?”

Phelps’ voice was bitter as he answered, “Every damn day I hear it.  ‘How is Phelps moving through the ranks so quickly?  Must be fucking somebody important.’”

His hand closed around Leary’s cock and he tugged roughly.

“Couldn’t be because I’m a good cop, could it?  No, nobody would ever believe that.  So maybe I just want to do what I’ve been accused of so many times.  I’m pissed off and I want to fuck.  And if you don’t want to, I’ll just tell Bekowsky that you’re in here jerking off and thinking about him.”

 _Fuck_.  Leary couldn’t think.  He was obviously being blackmailed into sex, but his traitorous cock seemed to have no problems with that as he grew even harder than he’d ever thought possible under Phelps’ callused fingers. 

“So what do you think?” 

Phelps leaned in for another kiss.  Leary allowed him to this time and was temporarily lost in the dual sensations of a warm hand stroking him and a strong mouth pushing against his.  But when Phelps attempted to slip his tongue into Leary’s mouth, Leary reacted instinctively and bit down.

“You _fucker_!  You’ll pay for that!”

Phelps grabbed Leary roughly by the hips and turned him around to face his desk, yanking his pants down his thighs.  Leary was torn between wishing Phelps had never been born and wishing that Phelps would fuck him right into the desk.   

Quick as he had moved before, Phelps shoved his own pants pulled down past his knees and pressed himself against Leary’s ass.  His fingers were at Leary’s mouth, poking his lips until he took the hint and sucked in two of the fingers. 

Leary quickly wet the fingers, so stimulated by the searing heat of Phelps’ cock against him and the glide of wet fingers in and out of his mouth that he was letting out a near constant stream of little moans. 

The anger was still there, though.  It was easy to forget in the press of skin on skin that Leary wanted to throw Phelps from the rooftop of the station and watch as his head bounced off of the pavement and –

Without warning, Phelps thrust his two wet fingers roughly into Leary’s body.  The burn was instantaneous, echoing the furious burn of anger in his head and chest.  The quick, jagged motions of Phelps’ fingers were exactly what he needed. 

His perfunctory preparation completed, Phelps withdrew his fingers and spat twice, coating himself with his own saliva.  He lined himself up with Leary’s hole, but teased the other man by pushing too gently to allow for actual penetration. 

“Beg for it.”

Leary, leaning across his desk, would have whirled around and put an end to everything right there and then if it hadn’t been for Phelps’ iron grip on his hips. 

“I won’t.”

“Oh, yes.  You will.”

Leary glared over his shoulder at Phelps.  “Maybe I’ll just fire you.”

“I’ll tell Bekowsky about you.”

“I’ll tell the chief I caught you in the back of your squad car with another man.  Or you stole money from the evidence lockup.”

“I’ll – fuck.”

“That’s right.  Now.”

Phelps slid inside him in an excruciatingly slow glide.  The friction and burn were so intense that Leary felt tears form at the corners of his eyes.  But instead of suffering, he embraced the burn, he relished it, he was thriving on it – he’d never before had a sexual experience in which anger and desire warred for supremacy. 

Phelps set a bruising pace, pushing Leary’s face closer to the desk with every thrust until he was completely bent over, his chest against the desk blotter.  Instead of the whispered terms of endearment he normally whispered to Marie, he filled Leary’s ears with a steady stream of, “You fucking bastard…you’re all bastards.”

The tight heat was too much for Phelps.  He knew he was close and began to pull himself further out after each thrust, only to slam back into Leary, making the other man gasp. 

Then he stopped. 

“Phelps, what in the hell is wrong with you?”

Despite his ragged breathing, Phelps still managed to sound calm.

“Do you want to come?”

Leary nearly screamed in frustration.  “What kind of question is that?  Of course I do!”  
  
“Then call me Stefan.”  
  
Leary froze.

“No,” he whispered. 

Phelps slowly rolled his hips forward.  In between slow, shallow thrusts, he spoke.  
  
“If you want to come, you have to say his name.  I know you want him.  But you’ll never tell him.  You’ll never _have_ him.  He likes women, Leary.  But if you want me to make you come, you have to say his name, you pathetic piece of shit.”

“I hate you so fucking much.”  
  
Phelps sped up his thrusts, still slow enough to keep Leary from his release. 

“And I hate you.  I hate all of you.”

Leary bit back a moan.

“I’m going to fucking kill you for this.  Phelps, please!”

Phelps slammed furiously into Leary three times, then stopped again.  Leary’s moans quickly turned into a bitter, almost sobbing sound. 

“Phelps, I – please!”  
  
Phelps leaned forward, draping himself over Leary’s body to whisper in the other man’s ear.

“Then do what I want.”  
  
At first, it was a whisper.  A tentative, “Oh…Stefan.” 

“Louder!”

“Stefan.”  
  
“Again!”  
  
“Stefan!”  
  
As Leary grew louder, Phelps started to put all of the strength in his legs to use, slamming into Leary’s body so fast and hard that the desk started to slide across the floor.  He released his right hand’s bruising grip on Leary’s hip and slid it down across Leary’s hip to wrap around his rock-hard, dripping cock.

“Louder!”  
  
Leary’s cry of, “Oh! God, Stefan!” was so loud that anyone left in the building could have heard it as he came directly onto the pile of paperwork he’d spent the entire evening working on.

With a snarled, “You’re so pathetic,” Phelps buried himself in Leary, allowing the twitching of Leary’s muscles milk the last of his orgasm from him. 

There was no afterglow.  Less than half a minute later, Phelps was tucking himself back into his pants.  Leary groaned as he stood, quickly pulling up his pants.  Despite being sore and exhausted, he managed to throw a punch in Phelps’ direction, but his fist just glanced off the other man’s cheekbone, not really doing any damage.  Returning to his desk and collapsing onto his chair, he dropped his head down onto the desk’s surface and spoke without looking at Phelps.

“I hate you so fucking much.”

“Believe me, I feel the same way.  See you tomorrow, _boss_.”

 

 

Neither man noticed their audience.  Bekowsky and Phelps had been on their way out the door when Bekowsky realized he had some paperwork for Leary to sign.  Phelps had offered to head down the hall to their captain’s office (no surprise there, Phelps was such a go-getter) and take care of it while Bekowsky pulled the car around to the front of the building.

But Stefan Bekowsky could never sit still.  And when he realized he’d been waiting for almost ten minutes, he headed back inside to see what was taking his partner so long. 

The only light on the second floor came from Leary’s office.  Bekowsky could see a vague outline of the two people inside through the frosted windows.  Wait – were they…no.  What was going on? 

Confused, he crept closer to the captain’s office, staying in the shadows.  The conversation was clearer now.  Were they fighting?  Wait, were they talking about him?

 _Holy shit_.  Phelps and Leary were fucking.  On Leary’s desk.  And Leary was calling _his_ name. 

He’d never before in his life become so hard so fast that it was painful, but the spike of lust in his gut literally forced him to his knees in the middle of the hallway.  Wide-eyed, he could do nothing but watch and listen and squeeze himself through his pants.

 _Oh no_.  They were finished and Phelps was heading toward the door.  Bekowsky ran for the stairs, his heart pounding and his mouth dry.  He stopped and turned around at the bottom of the steps, ready to pretend that he was just now coming up to check on Phelps. 

“Phelps!  What took you so long?”  Bekowsky hoped that his voice sounded normal.

“Sorry, Bekowsky.  We got caught up talking.  Ready to go?”  
  
“You know what, it’s been a long day.  I don’t really feel like drinking.  Think I’m going to call it a night.”

“No problem.  See you tomorrow,” Phelps said as he headed out the back door toward his car.

Bekowsky climbed the stairs toward Leary’s office.    

 

 


End file.
